


A day in TA 2753

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [18]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dworin Week, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 01:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Early childhood.Dworin week prompt 'Youth'.





	A day in TA 2753

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose this isn't really Dworin, but it will be ;)

“Amad, what are you making?” Frís smiled at the small voice of her son ringing clearly through her workshop. Thorin had learned early on that he was not to go inside when she was working, and she felt proud that the seven-year-old dwarfling remained in the doorway.

“Hello, kundithê,” she did not turn away from her work, shaping the silver carefully before it cooled. She had cast the base circle shape, but the decorations would be shaped by hand, even though the silver required quick hands before it cooled too much to be malleable. She smiled, sending a thought to her far-away adopted sister who had first taught her how to work with silver and gems, and awoken her passion for the craft. “I am making a present, Thorin.”

“Present?” she could almost _hear_ him strain to see over the edge of the table, but he was not yet big enough to see her work from where he remained by the door. That was her oldest son, always so responsible, remembering her decree to remain outside her workspace even against his natural curiosity. Frís smiled. Putting the finishing touches on the central decoration, Frís put her work down. When she turned, she almost could not help laughing; Thorin _had_ remained outside the workshop… but he was leaned so far forwards she was surprised he had not fallen over. The hand that had fisted in the back of his tunic, however, explained his continual upright existence, and her boy laughed loudly when his Adad pulled him into the air easily. His small feet dangling over open air called to her, and Frís moved over, grabbing one and tickling it gently.

“Did you run away from Adad and your bath again?” she asked, as Thorin writhed in the air, held securely by Thraín’s strong hands, and laughing his little dark head off.

“I wanted to see you, Amad,” he smiled, and her stern expression melted away. Above him, Thraín’s soft smile mirrored her own, and they met in a family hug.

“Well, it’s a present for your presentation, kundithê,” Frís said, lifting him easily, even if he really was growing too big for her to carry around. Thraín pressed a kiss to her cheek, before turning around to pick up baby Frerin, who had just woken from his nap. “When you’re old enough to be presented to the Court of your Sigin’adad, you’re going to wear this crown,” she said, showing him the drawings of the simple circlet with the decorations she had yet to craft, but which would eventually become Thorin’s crown. It was tradition that Royal children be presented to Court on their tenth Nameday, and crowned by the King. She had looked in the Treasury when Thorin was born, and once more when he was five, and Thrór had presented them with many designs from his best silversmiths for the little Prince’s crown, and Frís had hated all of them. In the end, it was Thraín who had told her to make their son’s crown herself. She wasn’t actually a silversmith by trade, her Heart-Craft being gem cutting and setting, but she had picked up the jeweller’s skill with ease once she had begun drawing preliminary designs. Rhonith had taught her as a child, many secrets her sister had learned from the Masters of Khazad-dûm of old, and Frís had incorporated some of her techniques in her project. Frís was already thinking about the possible designs for little Frerin’s presentation. Thorin – her little lone wolf, with his dark hair and serious nature – had been made a circlet that represented all those facets of his personality, and she would do no less for Frerin, who was already proving that he would be a ball of mischief when he grew. He was a source of endless fascination for his older brother, even if he had only just learned to crawl, and Frís had seen the slight envy on her husband’s face when he watched the brothers play. She knew that he was thinking about the siblings he had never had – before the Queen had died in childbed, she had had several miscarriages – especially the sister whose birth claimed his Amad’s life, and who had followed Queen Sigvór to the Halls of Waiting three days later. Whispers claimed that the loss of the Queen had begun the King’s descent into madness, but they were quickly hushed before anyone heard. Thrór was not a bad king, Frís had thought growing up in Erebor, but lately there was a darkness in her good-father that she had not before seen.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“When’s Adad and Balin comin home, I’Ama?” Dwalin whined, kicking his toys across the floor of the sitting room that belonged to his aunt. “I’m boooored.”

“Ach, my wee nephew cannae be bored,” Rádveig protested, picking up the four-year-old and blowing a raspberry on his tummy. “He’s got all his fine wee toys, and his favourite auntie to play with, no?” Tickling him with her untamed beard, Rádveig laughed at the sounds of dwarfling joy that filled her chambers.

 

“I’Ama, why don Adad n Balin live here with me and Amad? Don they like us anymore?” Dwalin asked, later, as the Lady of the Iron Hills was putting him down for a nap. Rádveig stroked his small cheek gently, kissing his forehead with all the reassurance she could muster.

“Your Adad n yer brother miss you verra much, me kafnith,” she hummed. “They’ll be back from Erebor soon enough, lad, dinnae fash.” In truth, it would probably be a few months, and Rádveig knew it.

“Promise?” Dwalin’s small voice asked, breaking his aunt’s heart with the plaintive sound.

“I promise, kafnith. Now, you have to sleep, and when you wake up, Amad will be here to sing for you, aye?” Rádveig smiled, pressing another kiss against Dwalin’s small face.

The Lady of the Iron Hills held back her tears until she had returned to her sitting room. She did not like lying to the boy, but she didn’t know how to explain the whole tangle to him. He was so young, far too young to understand anything besides the fact that his brother and father were not living with him and his mother, too young to understand why Balin had needed to move to Erebor the year before his own birth, and why his Amad had chosen to stay. Of course, Sigrún _claimed_ it was to train her last apprentice Singer, but her twin sister knew better, knew that Sigrún stayed for her sake, the only Stiffbeards in a colony of Longbeards, who did not feel that Rádveig was doing her duty by her husband, having given him no pebbles after more than fifteen years of marriage. She envied her sister, having married her One, married for love, while her own marriage was part of a deal between their Adad and Lord Grór. Rádveig hadn’t much cared at the time, finding her husband handsome enough, and knowing that, unlike Sigrún, she did not have a One waiting for her. Rádveig hadn’t even minded the long engagement, Náin was thirty years her junior after all, but she couldn’t help but fear the day when Sigrún would leave her alone among her husband’s kin. Sometimes, Rádveig wished that they had stayed home, but if they had, Sigrún would probably never have met Fundin, who made her so happy that it sometimes hurt to look at them. Náin was… Rádveig settled on the word kind after some deliberation. Náin was kind to her, and he did come to her bed to do his husbandly duties, but even after having known him for more than thirty years, Rádveig did not feel like she knew her husband.

It was a very long afternoon for the Lady of the Iron Hills, sitting alone in her chambers, her silver embroidery forgotten in her lap as she thought about her life.

 

* * *

 

“Good day, sister,” Sigrún said, pressing her forehead against Rádveig’s in greeting. “What’s wrong?” she said, worried, when she caught sight of Rádveig’s face, dried tracks of tears visible on her cheeks.

“This cannot continue, Sig,” Rádveig said, her voice small. “Today, Dwalin asked me if his Adad didn’t love you anymore, if that’s why they don’t live here.” Sigrún drew in a sharp breath.

“Oh, my wee lad,” she whispered, squeezing Rádveig’s hand tightly.

“I have written to Fundin. It is time he and Balin came home,” Rádveig said. “You will need help packing.”

“Nay, sister,” Sigrún said, giving Rádveig a pained smile. “It is time my husband and my eldest son came home to stay.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, Lord Fundin did return to the Iron Hills, though the small family did not stay for good. Balin was the first to return to Erebor, two years later, the Longing too much for the young dwarf. He grew better at visiting regularly, however, never again leaving his baby brother uncertain of his place in Balin’s heart.

Seven years after that day in Rádveig’s sitting room, the rest of the family followed, as Fundin took his seat on Thrór’s council.


End file.
